your words panache me
I slip their sheaths and score
the middleplasm like green cells
like science

no godblood too sharp
nothing small enough to cry out
the ping of popping corn inside metal

the sing of your throat
a scarpal sigh, a winging

I want to row with your words
the bulleted fries that lodge themselves
sweat in my throat

I saw their singing as an objective
as a missile untreated

-

and when you sang for me
we both groomed


-

and when I sang for you
the room tired, the slippers felt the drapes
felt dramamine

-

no singing continuous

-

such that frequency can break light
bracts and barnacles

the soulless wires

o gunnels to represent trees
o marching bands to represent leaves
o forest to represent
the bark of an anion

-

cytoplasmic entreaty, the cough of my lungs is cellular
is the fate of space and time, though we knew better
we still fell